Justice
by Cellosrcool2
Summary: Not every story has a happy ending. People die. People suffer. I suffered. This is my retribution. This is my legacy.
1. Part I: Chapter I: Introductions

"Let's start from the beginning..."

I'm in a small, white room. Neat. Barren. When I don't focus, the walls seem to shrink, chewing me up, but never spitting me out. _Deep Breaths. _With an endless number of guards and floors standing between the nearest exit and myself, the door behind me is off-limits for now.

"What's your name?"

I remain silent. The metal table is smooth and cold as I press my nimble hands to the surface. It's nearly as frigid as this conversation.

"Where are you from?"

There is a single person sitting across from me. A man. His curly, dark brown hair is cut fairly short. His suit is crisp enough that I wonder if the pants and jacket restrict his arms and legs while he walks. The mental image of the "robo-agent" relaxes me.

"Do you work for someone?"

Each of the four snowy walls is dull and opaque. No one-way mirrors to spy through. Instead, the room has two small cameras in opposite corners of the cell. _Are my captors just on the other side of a wall or are they somewhere else in the building?_ I don't know. I don't like not knowing.

"How many have you killed?"

_Breathe. You've cut down giants and overthrown empires. There's absolutely no need to be nervous in any way. Breathe._

"Why did you murder them?"

_Breathe._

"Well?"

"Fifty three," I say, as steadily as I can manage.

I'm of the few remaining with knowledge of extreme bioengineering gone wrong, of brilliant and heartless work. And I'm the only survivor with memories of a dark past and the many claims of a bright future. Spreading their word, their story, is my family's only tombstone. Since this is my purpose in life, aside from revenge, I'm sure you can imagine that uttering the number of traitors I've slaughtered is invigorating, almost healing.

You can't? That's fine; I wouldn't expect you to understand.

"You have killed fifty three?" the official says with meaning in each word, breaking down the sentence as if saying it normally would cause too heavy an onslaught of information.

"Yes," I waste no time dwelling on my answer. I've done my work with precision.

"What did they all have in common?"

I wait for him to answer his own question, "They were all scientists, researchers…" he says, "am I right?" 

"Yes," I say. They were also murderers and sadists.

Staring games. My favorite. My sister used to take pride in her stone-cold eyes. She had a way of irritating people that we all found amusing. Or downright annoying. The lanky man sitting opposite me at the table has fixed his gaze on mine.

My questioner is very good. His eyes reveal nothing, if not boredom. But I can see through faces and voices and mannerisms. I can view his deepest feelings as if his forehead were made of glass, "You're intrigued by my story," I say. "Your career disappoints you sometimes, but not today. You believe that every case is a new conquest." Det. Duncan's expression is altered. He leans forward.

I've hooked his interest. What I say now will decide my fate. This guy is a rare specimen. He views me as a challenge: A girl with fifty-three well-covered murders behind her. He couldn't care less about how long I'm convicted, so long as he can discern fact from fiction, break my case down into black and white, just like his stiff suit, "And what makes you think that?"

"I have a way with people."

Duncan chuckles, "Obviously." His laughter is genuine.

"Do you have children, Detective Steve Monroe Duncan?" I change the subject, as if this were an everyday conversation.

"No," he scoots his chair a little closer, "but it's interesting that -one- you know my name," he leans his elbows on the table and loosely intertwines his fingers, "and -two- that you have no problem making that clear."

Maybe I'm more like my brash sister than I thought.

"I know everyone's name," I say. It's a true statement.

"By which you mean…" When I don't respond, he lists possible ranges, "…everyone in this room or… this building … this country…?"

I remain silent. Our eyes have been focused on each other throughout the course of our conversation, but now I lean back comfortably –or as comfortably as I can in this metal chair- and casually glance at the security cameras: two of them, in two separate corners of the tiny room. If I were to escape now, there would be nothing clandestine about the operation, for sure. I'd have to be swift…

"Let's try this again," Duncan says, doing a poor job of concealing his fascination. I realize that I dislike this man. No, more than that. I have a bitter loathing of his behavior, deep in my heart. Why? He's like the 'Whitecoats.' He's interested in others' suffering. That indifferent posture, those predator's eyes, that deep need to dissect. He disgusts me.

"Angel Ride," I say with venom in my voice. My visage has changed from secretive to violently exposed. My eyes are once more fixed on his. I think of every moment of the years I spent in dog crates and labs. I remember with excruciating detail every needle, every scalpel. The potency of my hatred focused in my eyes, I stare at the range of skin between his eyes. For a moment he's transfixed, then I can see a spark of terror. I'm pleased. I can see sweat gather on the edge of his scalp and I can hear the thumping of his heart move just a little faster with every sweep of my gaze down his body. How many ways can I kill the great Det. Duncan? There's nothing sharp to drive through his heart, no gun to fire at his head, and my chair is screwed to the cold floor, so I can't bash his head in. I guess I'll just have to resort to pinning him to the floor while I strangle him. It's for the best, I suppose: nice and clean.

No.

No, this isn't right.

I may be a serial killer, but Det. Duncan won't be my next victim. I only repay those affiliated with Itex, the School, the Institute, or all of the above.

I drop my gaze and stare at the metallic surface of the small table, still listening the collapsing signals of Duncan's brain. Without moving my line of sight, I decide to help him out of my pit, "You were saying, Detective Duncan?" My voice combined with a few mental nudges brings him back to Earth. I continue to sit comfortably in his mind, but this time I don't interfere, I'm just audience to his deepest thoughts.

_Guilty._

A single word prevails in the disarray of reflexes and thoughts. I look up to see a smirk growing on his face. I laugh, to which he is surprised. He thinks I feel guilty about the fifty-three murdered scientists. I'll let him continue believing his misinterpretation in exchange for the knowledge that he's so very wrong.

After a moment's thought about where he left off, Duncan asks, "How old are you?"

"About sixteen."

"About?"

"Somewhere around sixteen."

"You don't know when you were born?"

"No."

"I think you're screwing with me."

"I know." 

"Right, because you know everything." 

"Correct," now I really _am_ having a little fun.

"So," he continues, his voice thick with skepticism, "You're _about _sixteen. When did you start killing?"

"Ten years ago," I can remember my first victim. John Alber. Field Researcher. Gunshot to the head. March 27, 2005.

"So that's –what- 120 months to commit and cover up 53 murders."

"Doesn't seem unreasonable to me, not if you're efficient."

"Its just difficult picturing a little girl putting a bullet through a man's head."

"How long have you been tracking my case?" I inquire. Though it might have simply been a figure of speech, Duncan mentioned bullets, and I always used a gun. Call it a signature; while secrecy is my first priority, it's nice to have police know that you're a killer with a purpose other than making their lives harder.

"I'm asking the questions, right now- not you," he says, his reply dripping in authority.

"I asked you if you had children and you answered," I say. Duncan sees my implication. He keeps his authoritative sneer, but I can feel him backing down. You see, it's actually unnecessary for me to be asking any questions- or answering, for that matter. With enough time and focus, I can "hack" into any mind, crack the code, get whatever information I need. But it's much easier to let the subject's brain refresh the memory or information, bring it to the surface where it's easy to extract.

"I think that's a little different, don't you?" he dodges.

"Yes. You're right," I already have what I need. They've been tracking my murders for about two years, now. I've relaxed too much.

"That was a short battle."

"Simplicity is a blessing."

"You know, Angel," Duncan begins, pausing doubtfully before my name, "Earlier you said that I was intrigued by your 'story,'" so he had a good memory, "But so far, all you've given me are vague and limited answers. What exactly _is_ your story?"

"My story is their legacy."


	2. Part II: Chapter I: Smoke

"There's money in the drawer. Please… just take what you want."

My victim's body clenched with the added pain of my tightening grip.

"I don't want money," I murmured in her ear, breath shuddering from the gyrations of her struggling body. My right arm was locked around her neck while my left arm held her twisted arms behind her back, "and you know that, don't you?"

"You don't know me!" she sneered, tugging her body to the side in an attempt to startle me. It didn't work.

"Clare Makenzie Arterburn," I taunted with a subtle smile on my face, "Research and Development at 'the Institute' in New York City. Then a testing lab at 'the School' in Death Valley. Born in Dallas, Texas. May 3rd, 1982. Graduated from Harvard University. 64 inches in height. 120 pounds in weight. Three homes: one in Lost Springs, one in Toronto, and one in Pittsburgh. Engaged once, currently single. Keeps a weapon and an inconspicuous security camera in almost every room of each of her three residences. Green eyes. Brown hair. Known to be uptight, somewhat reclusive. I wonder why; you have so many nice qualities."

"Please," cried Arterburn in a strangled whimper. Her confidence was dwindling fast. If she'd had any hope before, it was crushed by my awareness of the cameras —which had actually been disabled for quite some time now—and the gun in the top drawer of her side table, which was now in my gloved hand.

"You've known for a while, haven't you?" I said, genuinely interested.

"I… saw your trail… knew it wouldn't be long."

"Hm. Smart. Or observant at the very least," I said more to myself than to Arterburn, "What's even more intriguing is how you tried to run, which means you probably don't hold much remorse for your… questionable activities… back in the day."

"You're right," Arterburn spat, which would have been much more effective had she been able to face me. I caught wind of one of her stray thoughts of escaping and switched my hold on her faster than she could process the event, slamming her hard against the wall. Her arms were still bound by my left hand, but her body was now pinned by mine, so that my right arm was free to point the gun at her head. I had propelled her face-first into the wall, but I was disappointed to see that she'd had the instincts enough to quickly turn away from certain pain. Too bad–I would have liked to see a little blood spurt out of that nose.

"Think back several years before Itex was justifiably dissolved," I began, "You've just been promoted to Lab Monitor. You went from the tormented braniac racing through your high school and college educations to the youngest scientist at the base.

"Every day you wake up in excitement, eager to go to work so you can participate in the testing and research regarding the latest genetic recombination project," I said in a sugary sneer, "You wouldn't remember much of me, but I'm certain you could at least recall my sister, Max, though you knew her only as Subject 1."

Pieces of her panicked brain tried to conjure up some solid memories, but apparently focusing is no easy feat with a Glock firmly pressed to your right temple.

Arterburn's voice was unstable and her eyes red. Her left cheek was squished between the textured wall and her clenched teeth.

"Please," she choked out, whimpering, "I'm sorry… I was helping humanity… I…just leave me alone–_please_," she was crying now and her voice had taken on a wheezing, hollow sound, broken by frequent hiccups, gulps, and gasps. But her sob story didn't move me. Actually, it infuriated me. I scooted my foot back to steady the abrupt motion of my jerking Arterburn back and ramming her body into the wall again. My victim grunted at the newest collision.

I may be thin, but I'm strong.

"You com_plete_ _sell_out," I said. Though I have to admit that 'said' is the wrong word here. In fact, I'm not sure there _exists_ a single word in the English language to describe the way my voice sent tangible chills up and down Arterburn's spine like nails on an chalkboard. Then throw in a growl, a whisper, a dash of mad laughter, and a pinch of salt on old wounds. Set the oven to 'screech' and broil for sixteen years.

"You're _pathetic,_" I condemned her, using the same tone, "You don't even have the backbone to stand up for what you believe in! You're too afraid of _death_! Well, guess what," my voice had risen several furious notches.

The memories of even my brief visits to the School were still quite vivid, branded on my soul by an endless mirage of lab coats and tile floors. I could still feel the pinch of every needle. I could still smell (taste, even) the chemical stench of antiseptic, hear the screams of whatever poor experiment had been discarded. Seem the mind-reading thing works two ways; I can make people see what I want them to see, do what I want them to do. Well, I showed Clare all of those nightmarish memories–made her live them and breathe them in the way I had, rather than from the other side of an operating room window.

She was screaming.

Now she wasn't.

My ears were still ringing.

Her body went limp and I let it drop to the floor. I stepped away right before her blood could touch my boot, it's thickness crawling along the wood floor. I suppose by that time I was quite used to being in the presence of the dead. I'd stopped glancing nervously to where my kill was left somewhere around number twenty.

I just stood there for a long moment, checking every last detail of my entrance and soon my exit in my mind. After one final walk through the house, I made my way to the modest kitchen. After some searching, I found a hand towel in the drawer to the left of the gas stove and turned every knob all the way up, the cloth now in a dangerously–or rather, conveniently–close proximity to the open flames. I yanked open a cabinet door or two and threw a couple pots on the burners just to be convincing.

A little slow, though.

I took a lighter out of my bag and walked to the window across from the stove. Sparks flew like tiny fireworks for less than a second and the innocent little flame they birthed hungrily chomped at its first meal. As soon as I could see the edge of the curtain blackening, I left the house and didn't look back. It was nice to be able to drop the furtiveness, for once. In a middle-of-nowhere place like Lost Springs, no one was watching.

I stood a safe distance from the house, while I imagined the fire inching its way along, gnawing on the wooden cabinets and leaping to the walls, igniting the building.

No prints. No DNA. No house. No evidence. That's what I concluded. The cooling winter air chilled me to the bone while the growing furnace reached out to me with tendrils of warmth. I thought about the last moments of Clare's life and how I could have let her feel how I felt when They died. It burned more than any alcohol and stung more than any needle in the School. I didn't show her, though.

She wasn't worthy.

The smoke I exhaled from my celebratory cigarette drifted up and mingled with the smoke of the housefire and for a moment I wondered––if smoke was like the soul of a fire passing on, then if I were a dying fire, would my smoke drift down to Hell? It then occurred to me that the smoke from a flame is visible long before it begins to wane. Maybe I was losing a piece of my soul every day.


	3. Part II: Chapter II: Follow the Leader

"We've recovered a body… or what's left of it."

The wood that hadn't been reduced to ash was charred and black, still weakly smoking.

"We think the fire started in the kitchen."

But did the victim die before or after it began?

"Probably an accident. Could have put something on the stove, fallen asleep. Old house, too; gas lines probably haven't been checked for years."

Under normal circumstances, yes, the fire would be almost indisputably an accident. But one factor –the victim– changed everything. If Det. Duncan was right about corpse's identity, she had been a brilliant scientist. She had been a woman of perhaps unpopular morals. She had just been scratched off the list Duncan was piecing together.

"Dangerous, living out in a middle-of-nowhere place like Lost Springs. No one to notice your house burning down till it's too late," the Converse County Police Chief mused with a nervous chuckle. He sighed, "Will that be all, Detective Duncan?"

"For now, sir. Could you contact me with more information on the autopsy?" Duncan said as he scribbled his number on a piece of paper.

"Sure thing."

On the way back to his car, the investigator saw something clinging to the scratchy tall-grass: a feather. He stopped and looked down at it for a moment. Duncan's mind came to the rational conclusion that it belonged to a hawk or some other large bird, but that discomfort gently tapping at the back of his mind, that instinct that was as necessary to his career as logic, told him something wasn't matching up.

Like a boy collecting trinkets and dead things outside, he slipped on a glove and placed the specimen in a bag as evidence, though he doubted anyone (including himself) would consider it in any way relevant to the case. Duncan walked the rest of the way to his car and dialed a number on his cell phone.

"Give me all you've got on Dr. Clare Arterburn."


End file.
